


Cigarettes and Pacifiers

by ineswrites



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Jack is in denial about his true feelings, M/M, Oral Fixation, Pre-Slash, Rumlow's Fragile Masculinity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-19
Packaged: 2018-09-24 09:23:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9715151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineswrites/pseuds/ineswrites
Summary: “Apparently, he has to be somewhere during his time off cryo.” Rumlow doesn’t look at the Winter Soldier sitting stiffly on his couch, unlike Jack, who finds it hard to tear his eyes away from this unwonted view.“You’re afraid,” Jack realizes.Rumlow’s hands are in his hair again, pulling them back. “I’m not afraid,” he snarls. He doesn’t meet Jack’s gaze.





	1. Cigarettes

Jack sucks in a deep breath through a cigarette as he lights it up and blows the smoke out his nose. He hands his lighter to McKinnon. She must be pissed; she’s been trying to quit, but here she is.

“Rollins, I want you in my office,” Rumlow’s voice comes from his ear piece.

“I’m smoking.”

“My office. Now.”

“Sounds serious,” McKinnon says.

“He always sounds fucking serious.” He breathes in the smoke, lets his muscles relax. “You’d think somebody died or something, and he tells you we’re out of coffee.”

McKinnon snorts. Jack throws his barely burnt cigarette on the ground and steps on it. He enters the Triskelion and takes an elevator to the fourteenth floor.

Rumlow’s sitting behind his desk, tapping some papers with the back of his pen. He’s staring off into space, his eyes only coming to focus when Jack comes in.

“Close the door.”

Rumlow stands up and circles the desk, leans back against it and crosses his arms. Jack stays just in front of the closed door and turns off his comm. Whatever Rumlow’s problem is, it clearly is more serious than missing coffee.

“We’re having a mission with the asset.”

Jack carefully arches one eyebrow. “Can’t the Russians handle him?”

“Fury wants STRIKE to take care of two escaped prisoners in Maine. We have an allowance to kill them, which also happens to be the asset’s mission. So we’re taking him with us.”

Rumlow is clearly bothered by it, despite his hardened gaze and harsh tone. Or maybe that’s exactly what clues Jack in. He can’t really blame Rumlow – STRIKE doesn’t usually handle the asset.

“Yeah, sure. Let’s take an unstable killing machine on a road trip. What possibly could go wrong?”

“That’s what I told Pierce, alright.” Rumlow starts biting on his thumbnail. Jack wants to slap his hand away. It makes him look like a teenager nervous before a math test. “You know how Pierce is, he just gave me _the look_ , so.” Rumlow nips on the tip of his thumb for a moment, looking away, and Jack magnanimously doesn’t comment on it. When he takes his hand away, his eyes are back on Jack, hard and cold. “I don’t wanna take the whole Alpha, any suggestions?”

McKinnon would be the obvious choice, but she’s already pissed today. Not that Jack cares about her feelings, but he really doesn’t want to be stuck on a mission with her and Rumlow while they’re both disgruntled. This mission is going to be hard enough already.

“Bourne or Gerhardt?” He shrugs.

“Bourne’s a dick.” Rumlow’s thumb is back at his lips.

“I thought you liked that about him.”

“Sometimes,” he admits. When he presses his thumb inside and Jack can see the pink of his tongue, he can’t take it anymore.

“I’ll give you something to suck on.” He makes his voice sound as lewd as possible so Rumlow will take the fucking hint.

“Fuck you, Rollins.” But he takes his hand away again and shoves it into his pocket instead. Then he turns away to sit back behind his desk. “Take Gerhardt and gear up. We have a quinjet coming for us at 1100 hours.”

Jack leaves Rumlow’s office and turns on his comm as he hurries down the corridor.

“Gerhardt, gear up. I’ll meet you in the locker room.”

 

*

 

The flight takes less than two hours, but they have to wait another seven for the Soldier to be delivered to them. They stay in a motel for that time. Jack shares the room with Rumlow, and his commander keeps bitching about what a pain in the ass filling the mission report will be. Jack tries to be patient, but he eventually snaps.

“For now, you’re a pain in my ass,” he says after fifteen minutes of Rumlow’s whining. To his defense, with nothing else to do, these fifteen minutes feel like eternity.

“I’m gonna be if you won’t shut up,” Rumlow warns.

He’s obviously looking for a fight, so Jack decides to be an asshole and doesn’t give him one. After another hour of complaining, Jack is almost sure that he somehow died without noticing and is now trapped in his personal hell, before Rumlow leaves the room to probably bother someone else.

The sky’s already dark when the Russians deliver the Soldier. They tell Rumlow they will come for him later in a broken English, which doesn’t make the commander happy. But they don’t respond to him, so all they tell him is, “Don’t fight. We must go” before they disappear inside their van and ride off into the sunset. Figuratively.

The mission itself looks fairly easy at first, until it changes into a game of hide and seek in the woods at night. Judging by Rumlow’s quiet curses, moving around is a pain in the ass even with both eyes working. Thankfully, all they have to do is to follow the Soldier, who seems to be completely unbothered by the dark, and cover for one another. Jack doesn’t let Rumlow out of his sight, practically stuck to his back, ready to kill anybody who tries to surprise them. It brings back memories from Danger, but Jack doesn’t mention it. First of all, they should be quiet, and second, unlike Rumlow, he doesn’t like to bring up Danger around outsiders. For Rumlow, his past in the elite special ops team is a reason to gloat. For Jack, it’s a wasted opportunity. He’s still bitter over S.H.I.E.L.D. disbanding Danger and creating Delta instead.

All in all, the mission goes rather smoothly. They eventually find the escapees – highly trained, ex-KGB – the Soldier kills them, they go home. Well. To the motel room.

“Fucking Russians,” Rumlow says as Jack lights a smoke. Gerhardt already went inside, but they stay in front of the motel along with the Soldier, who stands still as a statue, M16 in his hands. “Later when?! What are we, supposed to stand here and wait for them? Fuckers.”

Jack offers him a cigarette and Rumlow takes it, squishes it in his fingers for a bit before placing it between his teeth and biting on it.

“Let’s take him to our room,” Jack says. Rumlow looks up at him, wide-eyed. “What? It’s late, the receptionist’s asleep. And if not, well. Collateral damage.”

Rumlow paces forward and back for a bit, biting and sucking on the cigarette.

“Ah, what the hell.” He halts to a stop and looks up at the Soldier. “Are you tired?”

“Operational,” the Soldier replies in a voice croaky from disuse.

Rumlow dismisses it with a wave of his hand and offers the cigarette back to Jack. Half of it is wet from his spit. Jack snorts, smoke flowing out his nostrils.

“No, thanks.”

Rumlow drops the cigarette to the ground and walks inside the motel, gesturing for the Soldier to follow him. When Jack is done smoking and goes back to the room, he finds the Soldier in Rumlow’s bed, still fully geared up apart from his boots that stand by the bed. Rumlow himself is sitting on a rundown couch, the Soldier’s M16 resting in his lap.

“Fucking Russians,” he mutters as Jack sits down on his own bed to take off his boots. “Do you know how many of his handlers he’s killed?”

“No,” Jack replies, unfazed.

“Well, me neither. But it had happened. Holy shit.”

“He’s been good today. Docile. Nothing set him off.” Jack unstraps his holsters and takes off his shirt. If they’re gonna stay in this motel after all, he might as well get some sleep.

“Mmm.” Rumlow’s hand clenches the rifle a little tighter.

Jack sighs, throws his clothes on the floor. Normally, Rumlow would scowl at him, scold him for being a slob. Which he isn’t, it’s Rumlow who’s a neat freak. But Rumlow doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even look at Jack, his eyes fixed on the Soldier. The man’s breathing is quiet and even, and he appears to be asleep, but seeing as he claimed to be fully operational few minutes ago, he’s most likely still awake.

“I can take the watch if it makes you feel better,” Jack offers.

Rumlow dismisses him with a wave of his hand. “Like I’m getting any sleep tonight.”

Jack turns off the light and lies down in his bed, but sets an alarm at four. “I’ll change you in the morning.”

Rumlow only hums in agreement.

“Goodnight, commander.”

“Goodnight, Rollins.”

Vibrations against Jack’s cheek stir him awake few hours later. He turns off the alarm and waits for his eye to adjust to the dark before getting up. He shivers; the room’s cold.

“Rumlow?” he whispers as he approaches the couch, but all he gets in response is quiet breathing. He rests a hand on Rumlow’s shoulder and shakes lightly. “Hey, Rumlow.”

Rumlow stirs, opens his eyes.

“I wasn’t sleeping,” he says quickly as he assesses the situation.

“It’s okay, go to bed.” Jack helps him up, something Rumlow surely wouldn’t let him do if he wasn’t sleepy. The rifle falls from his lap to the ground with a clank and both shoot a quick glance at the Soldier’s bed. There’s no movement and Jack lets out his breath.

“I’m fine,” Rumlow says.

“Now you say so, but you’re gonna whine in few hours about how tired you are, and I swear, if you do, I’ll shove my foot up your ass.”

“I don’t whine,” Rumlow whines, but he obediently walks up to Jack’s bed and lies down, not bothering to strip off his gear. Jack takes his place on the couch, grabs a scratchy blanket folded on the edge and wraps himself in it. He bends down to get a hold of the M16 and rests it on the couch beside him. He can’t see Rumlow from his position so he listens to his breath that mixes with the Soldier’s, and only relaxes when it evens out and shallows.

 

*

 

All Jack dreams about after a mission like that followed by a work day is a shower and a good night sleep. What he certainly doesn’t dream about is Rumlow calling him on the phone.

He’s in the shower when the phone rings. Normally he’d ignore it, but it’s Akon’s “Dangerous,” which means it’s Rumlow. He turns off the water and gets out, droplets dripping down his body and hair, creating puddles on the floor.

“Miss me already?” he asks with a smirk, although he should be annoyed with his commander calling him twenty minutes after they left Triskelion.

“Very cute,” Rumlow snarls. “I have a situation at home. Can you come?”

“Depends. If by the situation you mean you’re too lazy to cook and want me to bring takeout, then no.” That never happened before, but Jack wouldn’t put it past him.

“No, jackass. It’s work related.”

Jack is about to tell him he’s not on a clock and to handle whatever his problem is himself, but hesitates. Rumlow’s voice is slightly, barely-there shaky, and his breath is loud enough for Jack to hear it over the phone. Rumlow’s not pissed like he was when he called Jack to his office yesterday. He’s nervous.

“Time sensitive?” he asks.

“Kinda.”

Jack grabs a towel to dry his hair off. His shower is over.

“There better be food,” he says before hanging up.                                                                                    

His hair is still damp when he knocks on Rumlow’s door and it keeps falling in his face, no matter how many times he brushes it back with his fingers. Rumlow doesn’t say anything when he lets him in. One look inside makes Jack completely forget his hair.

“Okay, what the actual hell is going on here?” he asks.

Rumlow combs his hair back the same way Jack did just moments ago. He briefly wonders which one was the first to do that, and which one picked it up from the other.

“Apparently, he has to be _somewhere_ during his time off cryo.” Rumlow moves to the kitchen separated from the living room only by a couple of counters. He doesn’t look at the Winter Soldier sitting stiffly on his couch, unlike Jack, who finds it hard to tear his eyes away from this unwonted view.

“But why is ‘somewhere’ your apartment? Didn’t Russians extract him?”

Rumlow’s only response is to throw his hands up in the air, before he tangles them back in his hair, pulling, like he wants the pain of it to ground him.

“Stop that.”

Rumlow glares at him but he lets Jack guide his hands away from his hair and down by his sides. He lets out a shaky breath, looking away and Jack finds himself wanting to caress this incredible cheekbone of his. But what he does is to step away, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“So what do you want me to do, exactly?”

“Nothing.” Rumlow glances back at him. “I can handle it.”

“Why did you call me then?”

Jack knows Rumlow doesn’t want to admit that he panicked, or worse, that he can’t really handle it. That having the unstable Fist of Hydra, that is rumored to have killed his previous handlers, in the safety of his home, might be just a little too much for him. He can see the struggle on Rumlow’s face to quickly come up with an excuse.

“Didn’t want to discuss it on the phone,” Rumlow says eventually. “You might be the one bringing him home next time.”

“You could tell me on the phone just fine.”

Jack glances at the Soldier. His eyes are following Rumlow’s cat, that is clearly interested in the stranger sitting on the couch. Rumlow’s focus is also on the Soldier and the cat now, and despite him standing a step away, Jack can _feel_ him tense. Suddenly, the cat jumps on the Soldier’s lap and he raises his hands in surprise.

“Soldier!” Rumlow barks and the Soldier looks up at him wide-eyed. “No matter what happens, do not hurt the cat.”

“Understood,” the Soldier croaks out and his gaze returns to the black and white furball in his lap. His hands are still raised, as if he’s scared to even touch the cat.

Rumlow sighs in relief.

“You’re afraid,” Jack realizes.

Rumlow’s hands are in his hair again, pulling them back. “I’m not afraid,” he snarls. He doesn’t meet Jack’s gaze.

“It’s okay, commander. You’re safe with me around.”

“I’m not afraid,” Rumlow repeats more firmly, his fingers brushing his hair more feverishly.

“Your cat is safe around me, too.”

Rumlow scoffs and leaves his hair alone, shoves his hands into his pockets before Jack makes a decision to slap them away. His hair sticks out in all the directions. It’s too bad that Jack with his still damp, still in his face hair isn’t in a position to mock him for it.

“Look, it’s all handled,” Rumlow says. “The asset spends the night on the couch and doesn’t kill my cat in the process. All fine and dandy. I just—I guess I wanted somebody to know in case I didn’t come to work tomorrow.”

Jack hums. “If my assistance is no longer needed, I’ll just go then.”

He has his hand on the door handle when Rumlow blurts out, “Stay for dinner.”

Jack turns to look at him questioningly.

“You wanted food,” Rumlow reminds him. He has his arms crossed on his chest and tries to look like he’s making Jack a big favor.

“Okay.” Jack goes back inside, sits down on the barstool.

Rumlow visibly relaxes and opens the fridge, takes out produce Jack isn’t really paying attention to. He turns around to watch the Soldier instead. He hasn’t changed his position. Jack wonders when his flesh arm will get tired from holding it up.

“Does he eat?” he asks.

“Do I look like I know?” Rumlow scoffs.

“Well, whatever you’re making, make more. It’d be rude to make him watch us eat.”

“See, this is why I need you. What if he went berserk because I didn’t feed him?”

Jack looks back at Rumlow with a smug smirk, which Rumlow can’t see because he’s too preoccupied with filling a pot with water.

“So you do need me.”

“Shut up.”

Rumlow sets the pot on the stove and Jack looks back at the Soldier that, frankly, is a far more interesting view.

“Soldier,” he says, “do you eat?”

The Soldier looks up at him. His eyes aren’t as wide anymore, but he’s still as stiff as ever. “Affirmative.”

“What exactly?”

The Soldier seems to find this question problematic. He looks down and honest to God _pouts._ Jack almost cracks up laughing, but he manages to keep a straight face.

“Any solids?” he tries to help out.

“Paste.” The Soldier’s face goes back to neutral.

“I’m not blending shit for him.”

“He’ll be fine.” Jack notices the Soldier’s flesh arm starts to shiver and takes pity on him. “You can put your arms down, Soldier. Just don’t hurt the cat.”

The Soldier rests his hands on the couch by his sides. His gaze drops back to the curled and purring cat in his lap.

“Maybe we should teach him to pet it.”

“Absolutely not,” Rumlow snaps. He’s one of those people who put their pet above other humans. Not that there is anybody in Rumlow’s life he’d consider worthy of his affection. No family, no girlfriend – it’s almost pitiful.

“You know, maybe it’s a good thing they made you the asset’s handler, at least there’s somebody there to keep you company.”

“You’re very cute, Rollins.”

Rumlow is done cutting chicken meat to pieces and throws it onto a frying pan. It begins to sizzle right away.

“But, of course, it’s not like you need anybody. Family’s a liability in our line of work, isn’t it?”

“That is correct. Remind me, why are we discussing my private life?”

“No reason.” Jack isn’t really sure. He wants to believe he just likes to mock Rumlow, but he’s aware it’s not true. Well, it _is_. But it’s not what this concrete conversation is about. Maybe it just annoys him Rumlow chooses to fill the void in his life with a cat, while there are humans that would give him the kind of comfort and security he needs. And no, Jack doesn’t mean himself. Just… It _is_ pitiful. His commander shouldn’t come off as pitiful, it’s not good for the team.

“Like you’re the one to talk.” Rumlow leans against a counter, finally facing Jack while he waits for rice and chicken to cook. He crosses his arms on his chest, looking at Jack defiantly. “Where’s your wife and kids, jackass?”

“I have a sister.”

Rumlow raises his eyebrow at that. “Is there anything about your relationship with your sister I should know about?”

“What I mean is, at least I have somebody.”

“Well, sorry for being an orphan.”

Rumlow looks away to toss the chicken around the pan. The topic dies after that, not because it becomes awkward, but because Jack can’t find an argument that can top being an orphan and raised in several abusive foster homes. Not that Rumlow ever used the word “abusive” but from what little Jack heard, they must have been.

Soon enough, Rumlow hands the plates of chicken and rice to Jack and the Soldier, and he sits on a barstool beside Jack with his own. Jack notices the Soldier doesn’t begin to eat before them, but he’s not sure what’s the reason. They eat in silence and the Soldier takes the longest, but eventually all three plates are in the sink and Jack finds himself playing with his packet of smokes.

“Will you mind if I take a shower now?” Rumlow asks. He’s clearly ready to hit the sack, but he also doesn’t want Jack to go just yet.

“Go ahead. I’m thinking about staying the night, anyway. To watch the asset.” There’s a time to be an asshole and there’s a time to keep his commander safe. No matter how docile the Soldier seems to be, his instability isn’t something Rumlow just made up.

“I can’t ask that of you.”

“That’s what you called me for.”

“I mean, if you insist.” Rumlow shrugs and makes way to the bathroom.

“I do. Just come change me, I need my five hours.” Jack takes out a cigarette and places it between his teeth.

“If you want to smoke, do it outside,” Rumlow says before disappearing behind the bathroom door.

Jack scowls. He’s not going to go all the way down outside (Rumlow lives on the fourth floor), so he puts the cigarette back in the packet. He unholsters his gun and sets it down on the counter beside him, his gaze fixing on the Soldier.

“Go to sleep, Soldier.”

The Soldier doesn’t move. Jack frowns. He wonders briefly if he doesn’t need to use the bathroom, but surely he’d communicate such a need, wouldn’t he?

“What’s the matter, Soldier?”

“The cat,” comes the answer and Jack almost laughs. The Soldier won’t move because a cat is lying on him.

“You can nudge it, it should go away. Gently.”

The Soldier pokes the little ball of fur with a flesh finger. The cat doesn’t react. The Soldier doesn’t look willing to try anything else in fear of damaging the fragile creature, so Jack sighs, gets up and lifts the cat off the Soldier’s lap. It meows at him before he puts it down on the floor, and then runs off to Rumlow’s bedroom. There’s white hair lingering around the Soldier’s crotch. Considering the lack of its presence in the rest of the apartment, it occurs to Jack Rumlow must clean his living space at least three times a day.

Yet another argument against the cat.

“Now, take off your boots and lie down. Try to sleep. You have a mission tomorrow?”

“Affirmative.”

The Soldier takes off his boots and lies down on the couch, resting his head on the hard armrest.

“Are you comfortable?”

The Soldier just looks at him as if he doesn’t understand the question. Jack dismisses it with a wave of his hand and goes back to his place at the kitchen counter. “Go to sleep,” he repeats.

Rumlow exits the bathroom dressed in a pair of grey sweatpants and a black, loose tee. His wet hair is slicked back.

“Do you need anything?” he asks, looking at Jack across the room. Jack shakes his head.

“Okay. Well, goodnight then.”

“Do you want me to tuck you in?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Rumlow stomps off to his bedroom and shuts the door behind him.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to check for the monsters under your bed?!” Jack calls after him. A muffled voice tells him to go fuck himself.

Jack turns off the light to make it easier for the Soldier to fall asleep and busies himself with his phone. He opens the window two or three times to smoke, and he’s fairly sure Rumlow will kill him for it when he finds out, but he doesn’t care. He needs his daily dose of nicotine.

Less than three hours pass before the bedroom door opens again and Rumlow walks into the living room. His disheveled hair looks fluffy and soft and Jack finds himself wondering what it would feel like to comb it with his fingers. He frowns at himself; he doesn’t know where the thought comes from.

“Aw, baby, you can’t sleep? Is there a monster in your closet?” he mocks.

“Do me a favor and choke on a dick.” Rumlow’s voice sounds as croaky as the Soldier’s. He pauses in his short trip to the fridge, sniffs and frowns. “Did you smoke in here?”

“Yep,” Jack replies, popping the p.

Rumlow stares at him for a while, and Jack can see the heat rising in his cheeks despite the dark. But instead of exploding, Rumlow just kind of… deflates. He’s clearly not caffeinated enough for Jack’s shit.

“Why am I friends with you?” he asks resigned and stuffs his face in the fridge.

“Oh, we’re friends now! I thought we were just colleagues.”

“We’re about to be a commander and his dead second.” Rumlow grabs a carton of milk, fills a mug and puts it in a microwave. “How’s the asset?”

“Hasn’t moved an inch.”

Rumlow nods as he sits beside Jack, a mug of warm milk in hand.

“What’s the matter?” Jack asks, looking him up and down. “You look like you didn’t even sleep a minute.”

He thinks back to their beginnings at STRIKE. Two rookies assisting Alpha on a mission. One of them gets captured and imprisoned. The other assists STRIKE Team Danger on a rescue mission. Masters and Wilson jump the safehouse blazing guns around, but it’s Jack who finds Rumlow, Jack who carries him out to safety, because he’s too weak and battered to walk on his own. They became close after this. Rumlow would sometimes text him in the middle of the night because he couldn’t fall asleep, and Jack would spend hours explaining exactly why pineapple pizza is evil. Fifteen years later, and Rumlow won’t even call him by his first name.

Where did they go wrong?

“I slept. You said to change you, so here I am.” Rumlow takes Jack’s packet of cigarettes, pulls one out and puts it in his mouth, starts to suck on it.

“Oh, what now, you need a pacifier?”

Rumlow presses the smoke against his lower lip and glares at Jack. “I’m gonna fucking kill you one of these days. Or order the Soldier to do it. I’ll just say he went berserk. I’m not kidding, Rollins,” he adds when Jack smirks.

“I’m sorry, sir.” Jack struggles to keep his face straight. “I just can’t help myself, you’re such a short, angry baby!” That earns him a punch to the shoulder. It’s strong and it hurts but Jack laughs, pretending it doesn’t. “You even punch like a baby.” But he stands up before Rumlow punches him again, makes way to the bedroom. “Wake me up at 0600.”

“You won’t wake up,” Rumlow mutters. “The asset will kill you in your fucking sleep.”

“You can’t honestly think I’d ever believe that?” Jack asks. “Come on, Shorty, we both know if you were to kill me, you’d make me feel it.”

Rumlow throws Jack’s smokes at him, but he’s smirking. Jack dodges and the packet lands on the floor. He doesn’t reach out for it; he knows it will bother Rumlow enough to pick it up himself.

In the bedroom, the cat took the pillow, so Jack shoves it off. It doesn’t complain though and curls on Jack’s chest as soon as he’s lying down. The pillow smells of Rumlow’s hair.

 

*

 

The inside of Jack’s car smells like Axe and it drives him crazy, but as soon as they drop the Soldier off at a Hydra base, Rumlow is all bubbly again, so Jack doesn’t have the heart to complain. Nobody asks questions when they arrive at the Triskelion together, smelling of the same deodorant, because for such a complicated friendship that they share, it isn’t such a rare occurrence. Sometimes Jack wonders if their colleagues get any ideas because of this, especially when he goes out for a smoke with McKinnon and she gives him _a look_. But it’s the furthest thing on his mind when he hears Rumlow’s voice on his comm. Again.

“Rollins, my office, now.”

McKinnon doesn’t comment this time but waggles her eyebrows instead, and Jack really wants to punch her smirk away, but all he does is to look at his half-burnt cigarette in pain and flick it to the ground.

When he enters Rumlow’s office, the commander has his pen up his mouth and Jack just knows whatever this is, it has something to do with the Soldier.

Rumlow looks at him darkly. “Guess who’s assisting the asset on his mission today.”

And Jack’s probably masochistic, because all he says to that is, “I’m gonna buy you that pacifier.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. STRIKE Team Danger is my creation, and it was a special ops team that mainly handled elimination. It was elite, and there are many legends concerning it still floating around STRIKE. When R&R joined STRIKE, Danger consisted of Tony Masters and Wade Wilson. Masters recruited R&R after Wilson was diagnosed with cancer. Danger got disbanded after S.H.I.E.L.D. recruited Black Widow. Fury created STRIKE Team Delta, which consisted of her and Clint Barton, who was the Commander of STRIKE at the time. Masters got pissed about it and left S.H.I.E.L.D., donned a skull mask and became a mercenary best known as Taskmaster.
> 
> 2\. The Soldier doesn’t eat before R&R because he has no idea how to operate this metal trident the Commander gave him.
> 
> 3\. Next: Jack buys Rumlow that pacifier.


	2. Pacifiers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack buys Brock that pacifier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While this story doesn’t contain age play, it does contain Brock using a pacifier. And being embarrassed as hell because of it.

Brock walks in his office at 0800 on point. He looks at the stack of papers on his desk and groans. The reports are supposed to be done yesterday. Some of them even last week. Brock sighs and walks up to the coffee maker. There’s no way he can deal with this before his morning coffee. Had he known being a commander meant this much paperwork, he would’ve declined.

He opens a packet of coffee, spilling it on the table in the process. He’s always such a klutz before his first coffee. He wipes it off, wondering how he’s even able to drive in such a state. Years of practice, he resolves. He’s sure he’s gonna run somebody over one of these days, though.

He sits behind his desk with a steaming cup in one hand, pulling the reports closer with the other. The one on the very top refers to that horrible mission with the asset, when they had to stay at a motel. Brock rubs his forehead with the tip of the pen, wondering how to explain why a six hour mission took them twenty-one hours. This is the problem: Brock wouldn’t mind filling this many reports if he didn’t have to bullshit half of them. He was running out of his creativity for excuses after the first month of being a commander, not to mention four years. The other problem is Fury. Any normal director wouldn’t bother with reading this shit. Fury isn’t normal. He reads every fucking report. Brock still remembers the day he was a little too creative with his bullshitting and Fury called him on the carpet. He spent hell of three hours trying to explain himself. Then he spent hell of three weeks wondering why “bullshitting” wasn’t a skill Hydra taught their recruits.

He takes a sip of coffee and bites on a pen. The chase in the woods. It didn’t even last two hours, but Brock will claim it lasted four. And that they decided to rest before flying back to DC. The key is to avoid getting into the details. It usually works.

The door to his office flies open and Brock looks up from the report. The pen is still in his mouth before he catches up on it and puts it away. Thankfully, it’s just Rollins that walks in. Brock doesn’t want anybody else to know about that weird oral fixation of his. Rollins alone gives him enough shit for that.

Rollins grins, predatory and wicked, the way he sometimes does when he’s about to pull something shitty. Which is most of the time.

“Good morning,” he says on his way to Brock’s desk.

He drops a neatly wrapped box on the top of reports. Brock raises his eyebrows.

“What the fuck is this?” he asks, because he really isn’t in the mood for Rollins’s shit.

“Your birthday gift,” Rollins answers calmly.

“Huh.” Brock stares at the box. He forgot it’s his birthday today. Sure, the day started particularly shitty, but he thought it was just because it’s Monday. Besides, Brock doesn’t think the date is worth remembering. It just means he’s a year closer to dying. Nothing special about it.

But it’s nice that Rollins remembered.

“Thank you,” Brock says finally.

“See it first.” Rollins’s grin fades to a smirk. He still has this dangerous look in his eyes. “Thank me later.”

“This sounds suspiciously like I’m not gonna like it.”

Brock is a little wary when he unwraps the box and opens it, half expecting it to blow up in his face. But it’s not explosives inside. No, it’s far worse. Inside is a bright pink, honest to God pacifier.

He hears Rollins struggle to keep his laughter in. He becomes aware of the heat in his cheeks and his hands trembling slightly. When he looks up at Rollins, his eyes are watered and his whole body shaking, but he manages to keep his face straight. Brock takes the offending object in two fingers and shoves it up Rollins’s face.

“You bought me a fucking pacifier?” He himself is surprised at how calm he sounds. “I hope that’s not _all_ , is it? I mean, how much did that even cost, four dollars? You gave me a four dollars gift?” Brock gave Rollins a bottle of tequila last year. Yes, he knows Rollins doesn’t like tequila, but that is beyond the fucking point. The point is the tequila was expensive. So what Brock ended up drinking it himself?

“It’s the thought that counts.” Brock is amazed how Rollins is able to keep his voice steady despite literally shaking with silent laughter.

Brock throws the pacifier at Rollins. Being as close to his hand as he is, Rollins is unable to dodge and the pink plastic hits him in the forehead.

“You’re an asshole.”

“Thank you.”

Brock stares at him in disbelief for a moment before scowling at himself. Why is he even surprised? He picks up the pen to throw it at Rollins, too, but his SIC runs away laughing, shutting the door after himself. The pen hits it half a second later and lands on the floor with an unpleasant clank. Brock goes to pick it up and when he turns, his eyes land on the most offensive gift he’s ever got, resting innocently before the desk, its aggressive pink contrasting with the calm blue of the carpet. Brock takes a hold of it as well, moves to the trashcan and pauses with his hand hovering over it. He clenches his jaw, falls down on his chair and throws the pacifier into a desk drawer. He takes a big gulp of coffee, its bitter taste doing nothing to soothe him. He resolves to finish it, then go down to the gym, beat the crap out of a punching bag, take a shower and _then_ he can try to deal with fucking reports.

Fucking Rollins.

 

*

 

Brock hears Hannah’s little paws pat on the floor before he sees her coming to greet him. He locks the door behind him and toes off his sneakers, picks Hannah up and sits down on the loveseat with her. It’s covered in cat hair again, just like the floor and about anything else, and he’ll have to clean it again. Now though he just wants to relax with a warm, purring kitten curled up in his lap, stroking her soft fur soothing him better than any amount of coffee and chewing on things ever could.

He slips his hand in the pocket of his parka and pulls out the pacifier. He can’t risk anyone finding it in his trashcan, or worse, his desk, so he brought it home. He plays with it for a while, rolling it around in his fingers until Hannah gets bored with his petting and jumps down to the floor to attack one of her toys lying in the far corner of the room. Brock stands up, goes to the kitchen and once again, his hand pauses above the trashcan. It should be so easy. Just relax his fingers and it’ll land where it belongs.

His phone vibrates and he pulls it out of his cargo pants pocket with the free hand. He swipes the screen to read the text.

_Happy birthday. TM_

Brock clenches both his phone and the pacifier, staring at the screen until it goes dark. Masters. Fucking Masters who doesn’t give a sign of life for months on end, but sends a lousy text on Brock’s birthday, just to make his heart rate jump. Brock knows that if he tries to call him, Masters won’t pick up. Hell, it should be Masters calling him, wishing him a happy birthday. They used to be best friends. At least Brock thinks they did, because objectively speaking, Brock has no idea what best friends are supposed to be. But if he was to call somebody that, it would be Masters.

Suddenly, he realizes he’s pressing the pacifier to his lips.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!”

He throws the pacifier into the sink, smashes the phone on the counter beside it. Fucking Rollins. Fucking oral fixation. It’s really a good fucking thing nobody’s here to witness him almost suck on a fucking pacifier. Rollins would piss himself laughing. Bastard.

He’s so engrossed in his fuming he doesn’t realize when he cleans the pacifier in a hot water and puts it in his mouth. He only notices when it’s already there, the taste of water faint on the warm, silicone teat. His face and chest burn and he closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, trying to calm down. He already feels tears coming – what for? Okay, so he has a pacifier in his mouth. It’s weird, but not a reason to fucking cry like a baby. Pull your shit together, Brock.

He pulls the teat out of his mouth but keeps it pressed to his lips, nips at it with his teeth. It’s not that bad, actually. Not much different from chewing on a pen or a cigarette, and certainly better than sucking on his fingers. For a moment there, he’s tempted to keep the pacifier.

He _could_ keep it. Biting on shit is actually a problem. His pens and pencils are always ruined to the point they’re useless and he needs to buy new ones. He once chipped his tooth when he was biting on a fork. Hell, he nips on _a gun barrel_ sometimes, when he isn’t paying attention to what he’s doing. Scared the shit out of Rollins once when he saw him do it. And when he doesn’t have anything else, he bites his nails, which is a really nasty and noticeable habit. A pacifier would solve at least some of those problems. He could keep it hidden at his home. It’s not like he entertains guests on a regular basis. It’s just him and Hannah most of the time, and Hannah won’t judge him.

Brock puts the pacifier down on the counter. It’s decided: it stays.

At first, Brock’s still doubtful when he picks up the pacifier after coming back home from work. It’s covered in cat hair, so he has to clean it. He sits down on the loveseat and turns on the TV, his fingers playing with the pacifier’s handle, stalling. Five minutes later he’s engrossed in news, the silicone teat at his lips. Fifteen minutes later Brock’s relaxed enough he doesn’t need to bite on it anymore, so he puts it down on the coffee table. He spends the rest of the night without touching it, and he doesn’t put anything else in his mouth. He’s amazed with how well it works.

It becomes a routine for him – he comes home from work, bites on the pacifier for a while, and goes on with his life. Once he brings work home and does the entirety of it sucking on the pacifier, not even holding it with his hand like he usually does.

It still doesn’t feel quite right. Brock’s eyes keep darting to the windows whenever he does that, as if afraid somebody could see him. Sometimes he feels his face burn and he has to cool it off with his hands. He tries not to think about it, but sometimes, when he’s tired and unfocused, he wonders what would his foster father say – not that he _cares_ what the dead fucker would say – or he imagines Rollins’s reaction, or – or Masters’. Masters would be so disgusted with him. Brock’s throat burns and he’s even more disappointed with himself, because he’s a grown-up fucking man and he’s not gonna cry over some stupid oral fixation. He clenches his thigh, swipes the pacifier off the table and bites hard enough to leave marks.

It takes Brock exactly five days to rip the teat apart with his teeth.

 

*

 

Brock is in a shop with baby shit.

He circled the shop few times before gathering up enough courage to actually walk in. Most of the customers are women, but there is also a couple of men and it reassures him. At first, at least. Now he’s standing in front of a rack with pacifiers, not daring to reach out to pick one up. He’s not even sure which one he should pick. Not that he’s hundred percent set on buying one. He’s just… exploring.

The one Rollins bought him was just the right size, he muses. How did Rollins know which one would be right for Brock? He shakes his head. It was probably an accident, Rollins didn’t even _dream_ the pacifier would end up anywhere near Brock’s mouth.

Brock shuffles towards the pacifiers that look bigger than the rest. It says on the rack they’re for babies eighteen months old or older. They still look smaller than the one from Rollins.

“Excuse me, can I help you?”

Brock almost jumps out of his skin. There’s a young woman smiling at him. There’s a nametag pinned to her pink polo shirt, but Brock’s brain can’t process it. His cheeks start to burn and he hates himself for not being able to control his reactions. Not being able to control that shoving shit up his mouth bullshit is what got him into this situation in the first place.

“First time buying a pacifier?” The sales clerk asks. Brock still can’t read her name.

Relax, he tells himself. She doesn’t think you want it for yourself. She probably thinks you have a little baby at home.

He doesn’t know what to say, so he just nods. His eyes dart to one of the male customers. He’s holding a half full shopping cart in one hand and a packet of some baby food in the other. He’s reading what’s written on the back – probably checking the ingredients. He’s tall, slim, blond and wears glasses. A normal guy in his thirties. Brock doesn’t think he wants the baby food for himself. He thinks the man’s a young father buying shit for his son. Or daughter. If he looked at Brock, he’d think the same thing – that Brock’s here to buy a pacifier for his baby son. Or daughter. Brock would rather have a son, though.

He takes a deep breath. He can do this. It’s like an undercover mission. Brock has years of experience of being undercover.

“How old is the baby?” The sales clerk asks.

Forty-six, he thinks.

He’s forty-six years old and he’s buying a fucking pacifier.

“Eighteen months,” he answers. His thumb is pressed against his lips, but that’s okay, because he’s not actually chewing on it. It in no way indicates he wants the pacifier for himself. He puts his hand down anyway, folds his arms on his chest.

“A boy or a girl?”

“A boy.”

The clerk points at the rack with the right pacifiers and Brock grabs the first one and throws it into his cart, just to get it over with.

“Do you need anything else?”

No, he doesn’t. He wants out. But it will look weird if he walks out with just the pacifier. Suspicious. He’s a baby daddy, he needs a lot of baby shit. Like diapers. But he hears the diapers are expensive, so maybe not. He points at the shelf with baby food the blond guy bought. The clerk follows him when he walks up to it. He grits his teeth. Once again, he takes a random packet of oatmeal or whatever.

“My wife always buys this one.” His wife. How odd it sounds. Sure, he was once on an undercover mission with McKinnon where they had to pretend they were married, and he called her his “wifey,” but it was a joke to them. This is different. Now he imagines this made-up wife of his looks just like McKinnon. But she’s not like McKinnon, God, no, if he ever married a woman like McKinnon, he’d go nuts. He’d go nuts if he ever married period, which is why he’s alone. There’s also a possibility he’s already nuts, buying a pacifier and all.

“I’m positive you need more of these, sir,” the clerk says. “This is just one meal.”

Brock begrudgingly takes a handful of packets, throws them into his cart, grumbles that it’s all and paces to the cash register.

He sighs in relief when he exits the shop. It wasn’t half bad, he muses, walking down the street. A little stressful, but he managed not to humiliate himself. On the other hand, he now has a handful of baby food he doesn’t know what to do with. Ah, to hell with it, maybe he’ll even eat it one day when he’s too hungover to cook. It can’t taste bad and it certainly isn’t worse than sucking on a fucking pacifier on a daily basis.

Adrenaline is still pumping through his veins when he runs into Rollins.

“Rumlow? Hey,” Rollins says and Brock looks up at him wide-eyed.

That’s just his fucking luck to stumble into _Rollins_ on a street neither of them has any business to be. Better yet – it’s his fucking luck to stumble into Rollins while holding a plastic bag with a face of a baby sucking on a pacifier on it. Of course, Rollins’s gaze drops to the fucking bag. His eyebrows twitch. Brock is sure he can’t see the pacifier because it’s buried underneath all that baby food, but still. Rollins gives him a pacifier and five days later, he runs into Brock holding a bag from a baby shop, it’s not hard to put two and two together. And Brock doesn’t even have any nieces or nephews he can use as an excuse.

“My neighbor asked me a favor,” he manages out, nodding at the bag.

“You keep in touch with your neighbors?”

“It’s an emergency.” Rollins knows it’s bullshit but he pretends to buy it and Brock isn’t sure if he doesn’t hate him more for it. He decides to change the subject. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m on my way to the bookstore. Steve Hamilton’s new book is out.”

Brock has no idea who the hell is Steve Hamilton, but he files the name away. He has a habit of doing that when it comes to Rollins, although he’s not quite sure why. It doesn’t bother him too much, though, it’s always good to collect intel.

“Listen, maybe you want to go out for a drink?” Rollins asks. “To celebrate your birthday, uh, properly?”

Brock shrugs. It’s not like he has anything better to do. “Sure, why not.”

“Cool. I’ve thought that maybe I was too much of an asshole with my gift, you know, but now I think, maybe that was just what you needed… I see you’re embracing your baby side.” Rollins looks at the bag in Brock’s hand again and Brock clenches his jaw.

“Fuck you,” he says through gritted teeth and shoulders past Rollins, his face red.

“Don’t worry, we can have apple juice if you don’t want booze!” Rollins calls after him, his voice tinted with amusement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trust me when I tell you this whole oral fixation thing wasn't planned when I sat down to write. Not to mention the pacifier madness. It just sort of happened. My brain scares me sometimes.
> 
> Comments and kudos are always appreciated.


End file.
